Let The Seventy-forth Hunger Games Begin, Cato,

When I Wake, I Have A Brief, Delicious Feeling Of Happiness That Is Somehow Connected With Peeta. Happiness, Of Course, Is A Complete Absurdity At This Point, Since At The Rate Things Are Going, I'll Be Dead In A Day. And That's The Best-case Scenario, If I'm Able To Eliminate The Rest Of The Field, Including Myself, And Get Peeta Crowned As The Winner Of The Quarter Quell. Still, The Sensation's So Unexpected And Sweet I Cling To It, If Only For A Few Moments. Before The Gritty Sand, The Hot Sun, And My Itching Skin Demand A Return To Reality.

Finnick?" I Say, "maybe Some Pants?" He Looks Down At His Legs As If Noticing His Outfit For The First Time. Then He Whips Off His Hospital Gown Leaving Him In Just His Underwear. "why? Do You Find This" -- He Strikes A Ridiculously Provocative Pose -- "distracting?" I Laugh. Boggs Looks Embarrassed And Finnick Looks More Like The Guy I Met At The Quarter Quell

I’ve Stopped Talking Because There’s Really Nothing Left To Say And There’s This Piercing Sort Of Pain Where My Heart Is. Maybe I’m Even Having A Heart Attack, But It Doesn’t Seem Worth Mentioning.

It's Just Me And The Bane. And I'm Fighting Him Because He Killed All Of Those Innocent Mice And People, And I Have To Stop Him. Not Because Sandwich Says So But Because I Say So.

I Drink In His Wholeness, The Soudness Of His Body And Mind. It Runs Through Me Like The Morphling They Give Me In The Hospital, Dulling The Pain Of The Last Weeks.